The parable of Tara and Tim

I was picking apples in my personal garden of Eden yesterday. It was cold. I wore four layers of clothing and Bill's thick gloves to keep my fingers from going numb. I had just re-positioned the ladder when an old car with peeling paint went by, heading south.

As usual, I waved, not knowing who it was, but that's what people do along country roads. The occupants looked my direction, waved, and then slowed down, backing up and turning into the driveway.

I was glad they didn't stop on the road because all three dogs were with me, and when Mom visits with folks on the road, the doggies think that gives them license to wander outside their yard.

The two occupants got out.

Yesterday was my third visit with Tim and Tara and possibly my last.

I first met them one August day on Center Valley Road, just east of my mother's home. They were riding bicycles heavily burdened with packs, indicating they had ridden a long way. Always curious to learn the next person's story, I stopped alongside them and asked where they were headed.

I learned to do this sort of spontaneous intervention 33 years ago when a group of cyclists were pedaling down HWY 95 south of Sandpoint. We were coming home from a horse show when we first saw them.

"Those are the group going around the world," someone in the car shouted. The Spokane television station had featured a story about them the night before.

Later, the group showed up at the M&J Foodmarket (now Sandpoint Super Drug). I struck up a conversation and invited them to stay overnight at our tiny little home on the hillside overlooking Great Northern Road. They pedaled up the driveway later, all nine of them. We had a tremendous time visiting and learning that they had prepared two years for this adventure.

This group was from the Bush School in Seattle. It included a couple of teachers and their students. They had learned languages from the Middle East to aid them in their travels. They had left Seattle in June of 1975 and intended to return July 4, 1976.

They bedded down in our garage and left quietly early the next morning. I heard from them via postcard three or four times during their journey. The group gradually disintegrated down to four. Since that time, I still keep in touch with one of them, Francesca Girard, who lives in Vermont where her husband Gene is a state park ranger.

So, stopping to learn Tim and Tara's story this past August was just as enticing for me, the lover of a good life tale. The couple had come from South Carolina. They had spent time in Lafayette, Louisiana, and in the Phoenix area. They were enroute to a house they thought was at the end of Center Valley Road. Turns out it was at the end of North Center Valley Road.

I learned that a few weeks later when once again I was driving from my mother's and came upon them with their bikes approximately 200 feet east of where I had first met them.

"Has it taken you this long to go that little distance?" I yelled out my car window. They laughed.

I stopped and got out. We visited for about fifteen minutes. Tim and Tara are religious in their own way. They know the Bible, but they don't seem tied to any one brand of religion, just believing and believing deeply. As one who does not wear religion on my sleeve, except to punish myself as any good, guilty Catholic should do, I found them refreshing, not pushy.

They were headed to wherever God led them. In this case, they had come to North Idaho to see a relative and to stay for a while. In our last conversation, I learned they were looking for work. They had ridden their bikes to town a few times and put in applications, but with no luck. I encouraged them to check at the country stores in the area, figuring those bikes were not going to get them to town to a job every day.

I was struck with their keen outlook on the state of the world. It was also obvious to me they were well-read and knowledgeable. They just had chosen a different track to pursue. They were willing to work and appreciative of the generosity they had seen in their travels.

Yesterday, when they pulled into the Lovestead, driving that beat-up old car with the bikes stuffed in the trunk, I sensed something had changed. I soon learned they were on their way south to Arizona.

The car had been provided to them by Love Inc. in Kootenai. It had become apparent to them that it was not going to work out for them to stay the winter with their relatives and that the potential for finding jobs in this area had diminished even more from two weeks ago.

The staff at Love Inc. had arranged for them to get bus tickets to Phoenix, where they would pick up the car they do own and try to find work. Before saying good bye, I asked them to come to the God Tree and leave their posting in the Lodgepole Log. Tara also left a silver medallion engraved with scripture.

We walked back to the house where I gave them my books and a bag of tomatoes. Tara offered to give me the one and only copy of the book they have compiled about their travels and their belief. I refused, telling her that when they get to Arizona and have the means, to make a copy and send it.

I know very little about Tara and Tim except for our three chance meetings. I know that I enjoyed them thoroughly. I know that I've wondered a lot about their overall story, who they are, what led them to choose the difficult path they've taken and where they'll end up. I know also that they seem quite content and amazingly in control of their situation.

I also know that I'm glad I stopped on that hot August day. The brief interludes with them have enriched my life by adding one more fascinating story about human spirit and the vast array of directions it can take us.

I told Bill the story last night, and he agreed with me that the tale of Tara and Tim was highly reminiscent of episodes from "Touched by an Angel." In this case, there could have been two.

I may never know.